I slept in hard today. It was the coldest night on the trail yet, probably because it was also the highest in elevation. I woke up to freshly made coffee in a french press. We went to drink it on the hill as we watched the sunrise bring red hues into the desert below us. He showed me what I was about to traverse. I felt scared but didn’t want to admit it. I swallowed the fear.
“It’s so silent,” he said.
“I know,” I said, “it feels nice to sit with someone else who appreciates the silence. So many people don’t know how to be with their thoughts.”
“That’s why I wanted to go on this road trip by myself. To be able to sit with myself and give myself time to just be with my thoughts. So much came up when I just took the time to slow down and listen. All of these dots started connecting.” He paused for a moment, taking a breath. “I learned a lot about my father. There’s a lot of anger I had and I recognized that I picked up a lot of it from him. Next thing I know, I’m crying. And I thought what a powerful gift I gave myself… to be able to listen and learn that about myself.” He pointed to the canyons shedding light from the morning sun. “What a gift I have, to be able to see this right here. Right now.” He took a sip of his morning coffee. “But yeah, you’re right. People can’t sit with themselves nowadays.”
He had me write my information in a little booklet so we could stay in touch. I continued on my journey, leaving my new found friend behind. As I walked back to the main route, I saw a worker clearing the road. He was opening up space by removing large branches of pine trees with a tractor. I inhaled the fresh scent of peeling bark knowing I wouldn’t be smelling pine or tree sap for a while for I was descending my way back into lower elevation.
I started the day in high hopes but the moment I exited the road to bushwhack down to Sweetwater Creek, I felt it was going to be tough. The creek walk itself was pretty self-explanatory and closely resembled a single track trail. Other than some bushwhacking through thorny bushes and going over some dead logs that were swept away from water, all was going well.
Then, came the horror I knew would be coming—a sheer waterfall drop off of about 40’. It was higher than the last one I had to turn around at when I first started the trail. I really wanted to prove to myself that I could look for a way around this one so I looked for footprints or any sign of a beaten track that maybe an animal had made. There was nothing of the sort, no imprints on either side and it wasn’t feasible that people went straight down through the middle due to the unstable sedimentary rock.
I swallowed my fear of heights and climbed higher in elevation as I walked the slanted rim of the canyon. Eventually, I found a way to make it down by holding onto an unstable rock that was twice the size of my body, praying that it wouldn’t roll on me as I came down a tight rock scramble crevice.
I cheered myself on when I made it back down to the creek, still shaking with some adrenaline. I reminded myself that this was what I wanted this entire summer, this exact experience. I remembered how deeply depressed I felt not being able to be on trail and doing something I loved. I craved this remoteness and route finding experience. And here I was, living it.
I walked another half mile and started to see a wide opening through the trees. Although I was excited to feel a refreshing opening, I knew what it also meant—another steep drop off. I came to the very rim and was too scared to even lean my hand out and put the camera over the edge to take a picture. The rocks became thinner the more they extended outward. It would crumble like sand if I were to attempt stepping on it. I wouldn’t even try because it looked to be a couple hundred feet of a drop.
I felt a big gust of wind as I looked around to find a possible way to bypass. I saw nothing other than precipitous canyon walls. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. I felt defeated. I played out scenarios of different ways I could make it down with the little to no skill I had in maneuvering down vertical canyon cliffs without any rope, let alone the knowledge of how to use one. The irony, coming from a professional rope artist.
I had read that if I don’t think I can make it back up the same way I came down then I shouldn’t attempt it. All of a sudden I felt angry at all of the content I paid for through different navigation apps and the plethora of information I found on various blogs yet no one seemed to mention how to descend from these steep drop offs. I couldn’t be the only one who felt sheer terror witnessing it and becoming nerve wrecked trying to figure out a plan around it.
I knew I didn’t have it in me and so I turned around. Even attempting to walk back up the first cliff, I had a near panic attack. I tried getting back as high as I could as I walked horizontally back to the top of the cliff. Rocks started rolling from underneath me when my feet began to slip and lose their grip. I kept my three contact rule intact but I found myself frozen, telling myself not to look down. I looked down. At the very least I would break my legs if I were to roll off.
I began to shake. My legs were vibrating. I closed my eyes and took a breath, feeling the same amount of fear I had on that hike in Durango. I remembered when I had the ability to call my brother at the time to help walk me through it. He made jokes to help calm my nerves and get me to laugh through the explosive tears of my panic attack. His voice comforted me. Now, I had no one.
I have grown to be much kinder to myself when I found myself in a challenged state.
I whispered, “You are doing great sweetie. Keep on going, you got this.”
Something I learned from a book I once read was that anytime you experience fear or are lost on trail, it is most important to stay calm. For right now, I felt as if I was stuck between my anger and the plane of peace I wanted to reach.
I closed my eyes. I breathed through it, not accepting my possible fate and put one step in front of the other until I made it safely back to the creek. That .1 mile took 30 minutes. From there, I bushwhacked all the way back to the road, found the little amount of shade there was, then laid in the dusty dirt. I stared at my toes popping out of my ripped apart socks, my legs bleeding from cuts, my shirt soaked in sweat, my hair covered in yellow leaves and dried twigs, my hands and thighs stabbed with splinters… and I cried.
How could I consider myself a real/experienced thru-hiker if I can’t descend some rock faces?
I felt so mad at myself. I know I’ve never had that experience on any trail as of yet, I guess I just had this sort of expectation that I should be able to do it if I’ve hiked thousands of miles on my own. It wasn’t the loneliness or route finding that scared me, it was the visualization of myself falling down a cliff and breaking my spine, laying there under the desert sun as I slowly baked away into my own grave.
Looking back now, the high snow year in the Sierras was nothing in comparison to this. Back then I remember crying every single day over how difficult I found it. Now I would love to be glissading down mountain slopes rather than sharp/brittle rocks taunting me to a possible death.
Funny how relativity worked. Funny how what we found difficult changed over years of experience from trial and error. I am sure one day I’ll look back on the Hayduke and will be able to crush it without all of the fearful thoughts I brought along with it. For right now, I feel as if, for the first time ever, I actually want someone to hike with, preferably experienced in this realm. I don’t know how to ask for help, though. I pray God will give me the strength to reach out to my community. I don’t want to give up, I just want someone’s presence beside me. I feel it would give me more confidence to be able to think straight. I feel it would take a lot of pressure off my mind to figure out logistics of shit I didn’t understand.
It was an entirely different experience not having an actual trail to work with. I’ve been on plenty of trails where if I took the wrong step off the mountain, I could easily fall to my own death, the Grand Canyon being a perfect example of that. But the thing is, I always knew I had the stability of a firmly grounded trail in front of me, not crumbling stones and boulders that could roll off onto me.
I really like that even in the moment I feel apparently scared, that I’ll recognize I’m actually pretending. I know deep down I wanted this for myself. I visualized it, I wanted the challenge of all of this. It was something I had prayed for.
On the bright side, today there were the most clouds I’ve seen yet. And on an even brighter note, a local guy picked me up just before I planned on setting up camp. It was a long road to connect back to the trail and get started from where I would’ve come out at. He drove me all the way there.
During the drive, when the sun released its grip, he showed me the canyons I would’ve had to traverse. Suddenly I felt a big sense and knew that I made the right choice for myself. Although difficult, I had to admit to myself I was not skilled in this aspect nor did I want to test that skill in the middle of the rural Utah desert.
He drove me all the way to the top where I camped in a wash. More than anything, I looked forward to some hot noodles only to realize I had accidentally lost my lighter.
I sighed. “Cold soaked noodles it is.”